The Sewing Box

Seattle Airport 2013. An 8-year old girl and a flight attendant aboard the plane. Los

Angeles 2021. A 17-year old girl at a desk with a box full of letters at the top of her closet.

Drawings of Disney characters and pages of apologies. Miles apart and years of regret as well as

absence. Years without seeing each other and months without communication. Not by choice.

A breeze brushed the legs of an 8-year old girl as she entered an empty courtroom. The

smell of coffee, the sound of someone flipping through paper, and her aunt whispering filled the

room. Legal terms got thrown all around the room. Confusion filled the air surrounding the

8-year old girl. 18 years. All she could hear was ringing in her ears. He stood up, his hands

cuffed behind his back, and didn’t glance her way. The only words that could leave her mouth

were, “Dad look at me!” But he never did. He never turned around because he was fighting his

tears. Since he never turned around, his letters became repetitive. Regret and shame were written

all over the paper, disguised by the hundreds of words he wrote. Five-minute phone calls split

between my mom and me. Glass windows separating physical touch. A striped box holding

sewing materials now holds years of letters. His punishment of missing my childhood, teenage

years, and young adult years turned into a punishment for us. Everything we knew about each

other disappearing with age, and all that remains is a faded memory of ice cream on the

boardwalk.

As years passed, her writing changed from joyful stories to sugarcoated stories and

poems about the feelings she never expressed. She ignored the feelings she locked away with her

dad’s letters and constantly painted pretty words across the page to hide the rotten story she

engraved in the paper. Writing had become more than an enjoyable pastime, it became a way of

expression. I let my imagination run wild like a horse racing to an open meadow. Passion is his

name. I raised him unknowingly and helped him grow into a breathtaking steed. The feeling of

happiness and freedom was what had been missing the entire time. I realized that it was this, the

warmth that I craved more than anything else. The career path I wanted was guiding me up the

hill. It has been patiently waiting for me as I clumsily pursue it. Opportunities lay all over the

meadow like poorly hidden treasure, daring me to find them. Nerves crawling up my arm into

my throat as I approach the box. My shaky hand fumbles over the latch, scared to open it, for the

chance that I’m not good enough. But acceptance is staring back at me, telling me to keep going.

A golden prize, ready to train my steed to do amazing tricks.

Bard College and UCLA Summer Writing programs taught him different techniques.

New writing styles and confidence to present himself in front of others. Even though she raised

him, these opportunities trained and bettered him. The steed was ready for competitions and the

girl was the same. They both made beautiful progress, so she would never forget how much it

took for her to get here. She was still the girl whose thoughts and feelings were a mystery to

those around her because her face always remained the same. Still the girl who preferred to be

alone, which often left her forgotten. The girl was quiet from the beginning, but now her pages

are louder than she ever was.